Return to Cozy Island

It was there, in late April. It looked out at me from inside, small, using the back of my eyes to watch. It peered out, causing harm. Was it protecting me? At one point, I even thought its existence might be providential. In any case, it existed in the silence of absent symptoms, yet as loud as the storm of anguish that wraps around you when you discover that the person dearest to you, the only one who truly would never betray you, has a countdown ticking over their head.

In truth, we all carry one, though we remain unaware of it. The pain of realizing how much time we have left tightens in your gut, sharp and heavy. It presses on your chest, forcing questions to the surface. What should I do with the life I have left? Does doing anything even make sense? Or did my time run out the very moment I became aware of the days remaining?

This is what we like to imagine happens inside the mind of someone facing the end. But the only person I have known through her final days was my mother. And she didn’t dwell on those thoughts. She was thinking that I needed to graduate, that I shouldn’t waste time worrying about her swelling. I just needed to study, go camping with friends, spend evenings out. Then, as the days grew fewer, she reminded me of what I needed to do when she was no longer here.

Remember to give your brother the money for the dishwasher, was the last WhatsApp message I ever received from her. She was in the hospital, time slipping away, her inner flame dimming amid the suffering as her oxygen levels steadily dropped. Then, the body simply gave out, just like the dishwasher my brother had replaced with such enthusiasm. So when she comes home, she’ll find a brand new dishwasher.

I have always felt it was a bit naive for an adult to be so innocent, so unable to grasp just how serious an illness can be. Yet I had two people right beside me who truly believed she was coming back home. But I knew the truth.

Today, I am taking care of myself. I take a tablet twice a week. This treatment will likely go on for two years, maybe more, no one really knows. Fortunately, it is very small and only affects a single parameter. I have almost finished my first three months of therapy now.

So why do I feel so down and frightened when it has nothing to do with what took my mother away? Perhaps it is the name, sounding so painfully similar to what carried her off.

In three weeks, I have my first check-up. I hope it goes well; it would mean the treatment is working. I feel as though I am living in suspense, suspended while the world keeps turning around me, surrounded by people who carry on regardless of my existence. With or without me, they move forward, choosing whether or not to let me share in their joys or their heartaches. It fills me with so much fear and anxiety, making me feel deeply alone. I often ask myself, If I ever need help, who will be there for me?” and I avoid answering, terrified of what that answer might be. Yet perhaps that is only right; no one’s life should weigh down another’s. Still, I would love to receive a message sometimes, just asking how I am, what I am up to, or if I fancy going out for an ice cream.

So the discovery of my small illness throws me off balance, making me feel unwell and causing my mind to wander to every possible thought. Above all, it rebuilds that umbilical cord that was once severed. Yes, it was cut, but certain bonds go far beyond flesh and known physics. Some ties are felt, deeply sensed, even if they can never be held in your hands again.